


The Price of Great Skillz

by aislingyngaio



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, And he finds an Asgardian staff, Gen, In which Grant Ward is a pole dancer, and there are dark elves too, giving him mad dance skillz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1811278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislingyngaio/pseuds/aislingyngaio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Grant Ward is an aspiring pole dancer when he finds a staff that changes his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Great Skillz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agents-of-frickle-frackle](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=agents-of-frickle-frackle).
  * Inspired by [all grant ward wanted in life](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/56482) by agents-of-frickle-frackle. 



> Ahem. All I'm saying is to visit the post that inspired this work (see above link) to understand just why I *had* to write this story XD Brenna, I totally blame this on you!

He found it in his new closet, all sleek and smooth, with one end of it just barely peeking out from the rubbish left in the small closet. Vaguely, he wondered if he should turn it over to his new landlord, since there was no way he'd be able to find the previous tenant, not in a neighbourhood like his. Pulling the object out by its head, he let it rest in his palms, balancing it tentatively, admiring its beauty. This silver staff, carved with runes of a foreign language, laid unresponsive in his gloved hands, but Grant Ward could sense the latent power embedded within, just bubbling beneath the surface.

Slowly, almost hypnotically, with his task of unpacking utterly forgotten, Ward gently set the staff down to remove his gloves. Hesitantly, he reached for his new possession again.

The staff's runes glowed.

Ward only had a split second of utter surprise before he began to feel light-headed from the rush of energy, as the staff's power coursed through his veins, and it was heady and oh so addictive. Only when the runes ceased their glowing did he open the eyes he’d unconsciously closed when images started feeding itself into his brain, patterns, routines and movements he’d never experienced before. He felt empowered, purposeful, and surprisingly bold as he took a deep breath, somehow more focused and determined.

Ward planted the staff vertically onto the ground as he sightlessly surveyed his tiny apartment. For the first time in his adult life, he finally found out what he was meant to do. With a cry of triumph, he started moving fluidly and energetically around the staff in a manner that suggested long familiarity and caged energy, with the new forms and styles coming as naturally to him as breathing.

_Slink. Smoulder. Rip. Gyrate. Ecstasy._

He only came back to himself when the music in his head ended with a flourish, and he smiled, gloriously satisfied.

 _Look out, world_ , he silently thought, _there's a new champion in town._

* * *

The sound of thunderous applause nearly shook the rafters as Ward caught his breath at the conclusion of his performance. No longer the shy and uptight dancer who was once only suitable to be the supporting act, he was now smirking and waving charmingly into the crowd as both men and women screamed and vied for his favours, generously tossing tips on stage, which the boys were hastily collecting for him. He gave a last wave before strutting off-stage to make way for the next act, taking care to show off his half-nakedness to its best effect.

Life had been extremely good since his discovery three days ago. Except for the brief ugliness that ensued when the previous star attraction of the club threw a tantrum that resulted in Kaminsky quitting the club, all was right in the world. His new dance routines gave him life and energized him beyond anything he’d ever learned, his customers loved him, and he’s raking in the tips too, which definitely didn't hurt. Besides, it was hardly his fault that the manager had recognized the fervour which the club had displayed on Ward’s entrance with his new skills, and had angered Kaminsky when John had only _talked_ about promoting Ward to be the star act instead of the less glamourous opening act.

Of course, he had no idea things wouldn’t stay perfect forever.

The first puzzling event occurred about a week after he’d found his calling. And it wasn’t a big thing really, but he’d found a big, round gold coin in his tip bag that wasn’t actually payable in any earthly currency - or at least, it wasn’t any that the currency exchangers recognized. By chance, an inspiration struck him when he walked past a jewellery shop during the next day, and was astonished at the amount of money they gave him in exchange for that one coin.

 _Perhaps it was a historical coin_ , Ward thought, as he pocketed the sum and the receipt for the exchange. He went home without thinking more of it, wanting to have another practice session with his beloved staff before the evening’s performance.

* * *

Two nights later, he overheard the barkeeper complaining to the manager that he either needed to talk to this one big dude and his raucous party from smashing their glasses on the floor or raise his budget for mug restocking because otherwise “I wouldn’t have any left goddamnit, and how are we supposed to serve the other customers?”

Sure enough, once Ward knew whom to look out for, he could vaguely see through the deafening applause at the conclusion of yet another successful dance act, the “big dude” with four other people - and they were the _oddest_ group too, consisting of four guys of varying ethnicity, and a lady looking every bit at home as the rest of her companions, with all five enjoying his performance and their drinks with an energy and enthusiasm that he had only ever felt with his staff. He had to mask his wince as the blond man among them raised his empty glass, yelled something unintelligible through the screaming crowd, and smashed the glass on the floor.

Kyle was surely going to have a another fit tomorrow, the poor man.

* * *

It was an unfortunate decision on his part when he broached the idea of bringing the staff with him for his next performance, but at this point the club’s business had flourished so much that John didn’t even blink an eye at his request, but clapped him jovially on the shoulder and said “whatever you think best, m’boy!” Ward smiled back at John, and left his boss setting up a weekly delivery of new beer mugs with his supplier.

He didn’t know if anyone else noticed that the clientele of the club was slowly changing. The big dude’s group returned every night, and somehow they seemed to know almost every new customer that walked into the club, considering they all looked strikingly different from one another except for their garb, which were… stylistically _ancient_ … for lack of a better term (though tastefully so, Ward granted them that much). His share of tips now had more gold coins than proper American currency, and he felt sorry for every time Kyle had to organize the janitors to do an hourly sweep up of broken glass for the customers who still didn’t frequent their club in combat boots.

Huh, _combat_ boots, Ward thought bemusedly.

The moment he appeared with his staff though, the big dude’s crowd looked on in stunned silence before breaking into an excited, approving roar and started a rhythmic stomping to his routine, a rhythm that Ward was surprised he knew - surprised that _they_ knew - for he realised that he had heard it as part of his repertoire learned from his staff.

And then, in the middle of the performance, as he was sliding down the staff and preparing to rip off his shirt, some… _thing_ … jumped onto the stage. It had pasty white skin and black eyes. And it went straight for Ward’s precious staff.

As if by instinct, Ward lifted it and smacked the would-be thief full in the chest.

Good news: pasty white dude flew across the bar and smashed into the opposite wall. Wow, he didn’t know how strong he’d be, how strong the staff could make him.

Bad news: dozens other pasty white dudes appear, as if from nowhere, and tried to mob the stage at once.

Catastrophic news: big dude and all his friends - yes, _all sixty_ of them - apparently took this as a cue to either save him or start a bar fight. He wasn’t quite sure which took precedence when he saw the absolute glee on the faces of the big dude and his four closest compatriots as they jumped onto the pasty white dudes and started smashing them together or throwing them around like rag dolls.

Ward didn’t know whether he should stay and watch the horrifically fascinating turn of events, or return to his dressing room and wait out the storm.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he found himself still on stage as a victorious battle cry sounded when the last pasty white dude slumped unconscious to the floor, and was stunned to find himself suddenly surrounded by the five original members of the weird group while he was distracted by the general carnage of the club. Turned out, the blond guy was apparently the real leader of the group as he asked in a booming voice, “What is your name, friend?”

Ward gulped. What he wouldn’t give for John to be here right now, because his confidence from the staff apparently only extended to the dance floor. He stuttered and nearly choked on his own saliva before finally managing to spit out his name.

“Well, Grant Ward of Midgard, we are sorry that you became the target of the vicious Dark Elves of Svartalfheim,” the man with the pointed mustache spoke this time while gesturing to the general vicinity where the rest of their group were piling the pasty white dudes together. “But as you must learn, it is only because of jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” Ward was stunned. All because of the staff?

“Indeed,” the oriental looking man, who looked like every word cost him much, intoned gravely. Did the man ever smiled? “The staff is of great value to ones like the Dark Elves, Grant Ward.”

At Ward’s incredulous look, the big dude pushed forward (and nearly bumped Ward onto the floor with his belly) to explain, “Why yes, mortal. Beings like the Dark Elves have always been jealous that we of Asgard are much revered in our dance. The staff you wield,” here the big dude gave a wink, “is the work of millennia of Asgardian _success_ , you know.”

Ward was crushed… were the rightful owners of the staff here to claim it? “Does that mean the staff belongs to you? I--- I’m really sorry but…” he felt apologizing was the only course available to him, especially when they all looked refreshed after their fight only minutes earlier, even raring for another brawl.

The lady laughed richly. “Don’t you go scaring the mortal now, Volstagg. The Allfather had left the staff here on Midgard for those worthy of it to wield. However…” she turned to the blond man, who was absently examining the staff Ward was still clutching, unwilling to let go. “Do you think it safe with the Dark Elves hereabout, waiting to steal our knowledge? Mortals could be in further danger if we leave it in the hands of this young one, Thor.”

“True enough, good Lady Sif,” Thor rumbled pleasantly, though Ward couldn't for the life of him relax in his presence, not when he still radiated subtle power and command. “Well, Grant Ward, it may be best for the staff to be returned to Asgard before more Dark Elves return for it, and you.” The blond man tried to gently tug the staff from Ward’s resisting fingers, and laughed loudly at the younger man’s reluctance. “Do not worry, friend, even if the knowledge will only remain for a few years. You are one of the rare few who has ever been gifted with the dance of Asgard. Cherish it, eh?”

Only another shoulder slap from Volstagg caused Ward to release his death grip on his precious staff. As the five of them walked off with his baby, already talking and joking and yelling at Kyle for “another!”, Ward barely resisted the urge to cry. All he ever wanted in life was to be a moderately successful male pole dancer on the Vegas strip. Was that so wrong?

_\- Finis -_


End file.
